


All Your Charms

by SinnamonSpider



Series: Otherwheres: Supernatural AU Bingo Challenge [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU wincest, Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Physical Abuse, Prostitute Sam, Truck Driver Dean Winchester, Underage Prostitution, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: It’s late and rainy and he’s finally at a rest stop with six hours to spare, and all Dean wants to do is collapse on a bed that isn’t the one inside the cab of his truck.





	All Your Charms

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for the SPN AU Bingo Challenge. Square filled is "truck driver!Dean". 
> 
> For the purpose of this challenge, in this fic and all others, Dean's last name is Smith and Sam's is Wesson, but they are not necessarily the Smith/Wesson from "It's a Terrible Life". I just want to keep their surnames simple and consistent. 
> 
> Title from "Lady" by Styx, only 'cause I was listening to it while writing. 
> 
> Feedback is golden.

 

It’s late and rainy and he’s finally at a rest stop with six hours to spare, and all Dean wants to do is collapse on a bed that isn’t the one inside the cab of his truck.

But it’s late and rainy and he’s finally at a rest stop with six hours to spare, and now he’s gotta spend precious minutes trying to shake this doe-eyed boy who keeps trailing after him.

He’s tall; too tall, it emphasizes how worryingly skinny he is, and makes the undoubtedly regular-sized t-shirt he’s wearing off one shoulder into a crop top, baring a waist like a girl’s. His hair is too long, hanging in bangs down over those huge eyes and giving him a vulnerable look. He’s too young, too pretty, too naive to work a place like this, where hard-bitten truckers who have been lonely for too long will end up eating him alive.

Dean’s seen it before. Too often.

But the kid won’t quit, trailing after him, offering up delights that would have tempted a man weaker than Dean Smith.

When he’s reached the end of his tether - and the door to the motel is in sight - Dean rounds on the boy quickly, noting the way he steps back. He might be too young and too pretty, but he isn’t too trusting.

Dean appraises the kid with a weary eye. “How old are you?” he asks quietly, and the boy ducks his head and flushes. “Seventeen,” he replies to his battered Converse, and Dean sighs. He’s only a few years older than this baby hooker. Life is strange. He reaches for his wallet and the kid looks up hopefully. Dean hands him a ten. Not much, but he hasn’t got much to spare.

“Try and get out of the rain,” he encourages.

The boy pauses for a moment, suspicious, then quickly kicks off his shoe and stuffs the bill into it. Smart, Dean’ll give him that - he’s likely to have to take off shirts or pull down pants for most of his transactions, but shoes are less likely. Still, it was stupid of him to reveal a hiding place to a stranger.

That, unfortunately, is not Dean’s problem, just as this sweet-faced kid turning tricks at a truck stop is also not his problem. He sees it too often, can’t afford to be sentimental.

“Go,” he says roughly, turning his back. “Someone else’ll take you up on those offers.”

* * *

It’s late and rainy and he’s still got nearly six hours to spare, and Dean has just collapsed onto a bed that isn’t the one inside the cab of his truck.

But the occupant of the room next to his - _occupants_ , actually, he can hear two voices now, one loud and belligerently drunk, the other soft and girlish - don’t care about that, and are making quite a racket that filters easily through walls Dean can only assume are constructed of toilet paper.

“C’mon, man!” he yells at the wall. He’d pound it with a fist, but he’s not ready for the fight that would likely follow. He doesn’t need his door kicked in, not tonight.

The sounds from the next room are unfortunately all too familiar, and when they shift from grunts and moans to sharp cries of pain and curses, Dean puts the thin pillow over his face and waits for either sleep or death to take him.

No such luck. “Please - stop!” The plea is desperate and high and Dean realizes with dawning horror that he recognizes the voice. Someone else had obviously taken the sweet-faced boy up on his temptations. He pushes the pillow down harder, curling it around his ears, but it doesn’t do any good.

The next sounds he hears are the sharp crack of skin meeting skin with violence, then heavy boots on the floor, receding down the hallway. Silence falls, broken only by soft sobbing. Dean groans into his pillow, flings it away from his face, and climbs from his bed.

Five hours, now.

He opens the door and peers out, but the hall is empty. Swearing under his breath, he pushes open the door of the room.

The boy is cowering on the floor next to the bed, pants around his ankles, hands over his face. He looks up, terror written across his features - his lip is bleeding and his eye will be swollen shut by the morning. When he sees Dean, he doesn’t move, just watches him like a wounded animal.

His shoes are off, Dean notes, which means his money is gone. Obviously, the guy had seen him stuff Dean’s ten into his hiding place. Cursing the unseen trucker in his head, Dean crouches next to the half-naked kid, catching him under the elbow and ignoring the way he flinches. “C’mon,” he says. “Get up. He could come back.”

“God,” the kid whispers, huge eyes opening wider at the thought of the man returning. He scrambles to his feet, yanking his dirty jeans up over his skinny hips. He shoves his feet into the shoes, leaving the laces flapping in a way that makes Dean’s heart hurt for how young he is.

“Let’s go,” Dean says, poking his head out to ensure the hallway is still deserted. He leads the kid by one skinny wrist into his room and locks the door behind them.

Turning around, Dean sees the boy hovering nervously in the centre of the room. He rubs a hand over his tired face. “Sit,” he instructs, and the kid slinks to the hard wooden chair at the foot of the bed and sinks onto it. Dean collapses on his bed, but not in the way he wants. “What’s your name?”

“Sam,” the boy replies softly. He’s watching Dean carefully from under his dirty bangs and Dean realizes that those huge eyes are a mesmerizing shade of hazel. “Well, Sam,” he says roughly, looking away from the sight before him, “you’ve learned something, I hope?”

Sam sniffles pitifully and Dean half hates him. “I usually do,” the kid says. “But there’s a lot to learn, I guess.”

“Best lesson is don’t be stupid,” Dean says, harsher than he intends to, and feels instantly guilty when Sam hangs his head. “Aw, hell. Don’t do that.”

Hazel eyes glance back up and Dean wishes he hadn’t said anything at all. He rubs his face again. “Look. I’d get you a room but I don’t have that much cash. And I need to sleep, or tomorrow I’m gonna drive off a cliff or sideswipe a school bus or something. So stay if you want, but stay quiet.”

There’s not really anywhere for the kid to sleep, aside from the chair he’s currently sitting in, but Dean’s goodwill is running low and he can’t afford to care any further. He swings his feet up onto the bed. “Please don’t murder me in my sleep,” he asks politely, and he hears Sam’s giggle as his eyes slip shut.

* * *

There’s a warm weight next to him when Dean comes awake in the darkness, and it’s simply instinct to curl himself around it without thinking. The warmth moves, though, shifting against him, and it’s getting harder to keep himself from thinking.

He’s still muzzy-headed enough to not react when he feels fingers plucking at the button on his jeans, when a warm hand slips down below the waistband to curl around him where his body is obviously much more awake than his brain. By the time he’s fully aware of what’s happening, he’s already thrusting into the touch, long fingers stroking along his skin.

“What - ” he starts, but those same long fingers press against his lips and he falls silent. The mattress squeaks suggestively as the body next to him scoots down the bed, and Dean’s next words, which were going to be “stop it” or “get out”, die on his tongue as a warm, wet mouth envelopes his dick.

Sam’s tongue works him like a Playboy fantasy and Dean is helpless, screwing his eyes closed to shut out the sight of those huge hazel eyes looking up at him along the length of his body. A hand slides upwards to tug gently at his balls and his hips jerk at the touch.

He can feel himself hitting the back of Sam’s throat and he bites down on his lip, draws blood to keep the moan from slipping out. The hand that is still gently rolling his balls in their sac pauses, slides further back, one long finger pressing delicately at his hole, and Dean comes with a shout, spilling into an eager mouth that swallows everything he’s got to give.

Eyes still closed, unwilling to face the truth, Dean feels all the places where Sam is touching him, and so feels when the boy draws away. He’s left cold, alone in the bed.

Warm lips that taste salty-sweet - his own spunk, Dean knows, but shoves the thought away - brush over his own, and then there’s the soft sound of Converse moving across the floor, and the door opening and closing.

It’s dark and rainy and he’s still got two hours to spare, and Dean is collapsed on a bed that isn’t the one inside the cab of his truck, with images of a doe-eyed boy seared into his mind.


End file.
